The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [92]
Raymond sat in the recliner in his living room. The lights in the house were off; the only illumination was provided by the big-screen TV. Raymond had a submachine gun cradled across his chest. Oscar Sanchez sat on the couch, flanked by Antonio and Jesus. Angela was across the room, bound to one of the dining-room chairs with her hands tied behind her.
“I got your lady friend here, Keller,” he said. “Looks like she was runnin’ around on you with that little greaseball Sanchez.”
“What do you want, Raymond?” Keller’s voice was tight with rage.
“You got away from me once, Keller,” Raymond said. His voice was slurred with fever and painkillers. “You ain’t doin’ that again. You comin’ to me this time. Alone.”
There was a pause. “Where are you?”
“I’ll tell you in a minute. First I want you to hear somethin’”. He put the phone on the floor motioned to Antonio and Jesus. “Get him up.” The men yanked Sanchez to his feet. He tried to resist, only to earn a clout in the back of the head with Jesus’ pistol. The two gunmen dragged him over to where Raymond sat. “Turn him around,” Raymond ordered. As they complied, he drew a small .22 caliber pistol from a pocket in the side of the recliner. He placed it against the back of Sanchez’ left knee. Sanchez was trembling, whispering something in Spanish. There was a note of pleading in his voice.
“Hold still,” Raymond said. “If you move it’ll only make it worse.” He pulled the trigger.
The report of the gun was slightly muffled by the flesh of the back of Sanchez’ leg. What noise did escape was drowned out by his howl of agony. Blood and bits of bone sprayed out the front of his knee as the bullet tore through his kneecap. The two men holding him let him go, laughing as he collapsed and rolled on the ground, screaming and clawing at his wounded knee. Raymond picked the phone back up. “That was to let you know I’m serious,” he said. “Also to teach the little fucker not to mess with my property.” He gestured to the two gunmen. “Bandage his leg up before he bleeds to death.” Sanchez had stopped screaming. He had passed out from the pain. The two gunmen picked his limp body up and dragged him into the kitchen.
“Now,” Raymond said, “I figger you can be here by sunup. I don’t see you by then, I do his other knee. Then we start in on your girlfriend here. You call the cops, I’ll know. You show up with anybody else, I’ll gut shoot both of ‘em right here. They’ll bleed to death before you can do shit.”
“God damn you, Raymond, just give me the fucking directions!” Keller was practically screaming now. Raymond smiled. He gave Keller the address, then broke the connection.
“You bastard,” Angela whispered from across the room. “I hope he kills you. I hope he sends you straight to Hell.” Her pale face and hair seemed to shimmer with an unearthly light in the glow of the TV. That and her words gave her an eerie, eldritch appearance, like the “haints” his Granny used to tell stories about, spirits that came out of the swamps on moonless nights and took misbehaving children out of their beds. Raymond was beyond caring. He dry-swallowed a painkiller. “It don’t matter,” he whispered.
Angela looked up. It had been almost two hours since the phone call to Keller. She was amazed that she had been able to fall asleep, but exhaustion had finally taken over. Now, she saw Raymond standing at his picture window. Sanchez, his leg wrapped in an improvised bandage, lay at her feet. One of the gunmen who had taken them, the one she had heard called Antonio, was lying on the couch, snoring gently. His machine gun was propped up by him. She didn’t know where the other man was.
Something on the big-screen TV seemed to catch Raymond’s eye. He turned to look. Then he smiled. He picked up the remote and turned up the sound.
The picture showed the a low cinderblock structure, painted in dark colors. The building was illuminated by flashing white and yellow emergency lights and searchlights trained on it. The brightest illumination, however, was provided by the red and yellow